Moonlight Sonata
by angelofdeath1119
Summary: A piece that tells a story, a musical piece that calms the storm.


Illusionizing.

Hazing.

Yes, that would be good words for how the listeners would feel as her fingers graced the ivory keys of the grand piano, and soft music took over the room's gloomy silence. It was spellbounding, that quiet glue unto which you get stick on when she starts playing.

Today, the piece she played began with light notes, to catch your attention. Heavy ones bounced around them, to remind you of its existence. The beat was steady, sturdy, light as a lullaby.

At some point it dragged down, heavy and dense, a mourning on a time of joy. It's like falling under a deep pit, jumping to the cold waters of the Antarctic, and diving all the way below. But still it continued on its rhythmic beat; that continued to catch attention.

It was toying around with the listener, speeding up then slowing down. It was irritating; but it was also really calming. It was a different kind of melody, it was a completely different tune.

It had a different feel to it.

It wasn't what she'd usually play; it wasn't those that woke you up, or made you happy, or made you laugh. It was one that would make you cry and weep, and lie on your bed thinking deeply about life's mysteries.

It was sad, and grave, like the melody a seventeen-year-old boy had on his frail heart. That silent linger into solitude that breathed between that notes; the quick plunge to oblivion whenever the tone deepened. It was that lonely boy's life story.

It was the melody of his cold, forsaken heart. The heart that burned for vendetta. The heart that turned cold and bitter. The heart that has forgotten how it is to be warmed with love and friendship. The heart that found its melody in the abyss of dark, unhumanly thoughts. The heart that picked up on the pace of the boy's life.

The pace of an angry desire to murder, which he dubs as 'to avenge.' He's stereotypical – he sees ways the way he wants to, that he cannot see on the other perspective.

He's staring back at his reflection in a looking glass, darkly.

The others – his closely-held friends – can see him through the other side, look at his every twitch of pain and anguish, but he cannot see theirs. Their worried expressions of sadness, those expressions that will him to stay, and stop what he has foolishly committed, and is trying to commit.

But so as they say, the heart is more powerful than the mind. He was controlled by his –appalling—innate feelings of retaliation, that urge to rebel against his true nature. It was unreal. It couldn't be.

Focusing back to her music, the small figure of a lady decided to start all over again. She played the first silent notes of the piece, that haunting melody of a whisper. It sounded mysterious, and repetitive. It chilled to the bone.

It reminded her of the untold rhythm beneath his steady heartbeat, a cold one that made her confidence falter.

The second movement sped up the pace of the tone, but still remaining cold and almost soulless. Nevertheless, it kept the song alive.

It was like the burning urge for revenge that pulled the boy forward.

The last part was a hesitant throwback – first it lingered on, like the beginning, but soon it sped up, like the middle. It was uncertain, undecided. It did not know where to go.

It told her of dreams and of memories, it told her of the recollection of the heart of a 12-year-old that stayed, locked in the case of a revenge-filled 17-year-old. The heart was craving for a new start all over.

She ended the piece with its heavy, last note. She didn't want it to end, though – the music was really beautiful to the ears, and something that you can send your mind into thinking. Thinking about life. Thinking about a certain broken Kuruta boy that proclaimed himself as the new angel, like a knight in shining armor, to avenge his lost clan.

She stared at the piano keys, wondering if, his lost clan would really tell him to do such. To pick violence over peace. To hang on the past and not move forward.

She stared at her hands, deformed with the curse of a certain piece she had heard a note of. _Maybe not so, _she deduced. _I believe they would've been peace-loving people. _Her usage of past tense made her flinch inwardly, but it was something she had to use anyway, or else what she would say would go wrong.

"Senritsu?"

She looked up and saw the certain boy she was brooding upon, standing by the door in all his glory might of tribal outfit, cold sapphire-emerald eyes boring deep into her soul, as if he could see through her.

"Kurapika."

"Do me a favor?" he asked, his voice sounding childlike, like the sudden undertaken changes of puberty.

"Anything."

"Play it again?"

Senritsu smiled and took a deep breath.

_I will, _she said.

_Because it reminds me of you. _


End file.
